


The Well at the Edge of the World

by Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum



Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [9]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (kind of), Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/pseuds/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo prompt 9: Fairytales.According to the stories, there is a well nestled in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters capable of healing even the gravest of ailments. Many have gone in search for it over the years and been lost, fallen to the cold or slain by the witchers that lurk in the hostile north. So when, after one transgression too many, Jaskier's father sends him on that same impossible quest, it is surely an effort to be rid of him once and for all. Yet Jaskier is ever the optimist and, as it turns out, help can be found in the most unlikely places.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079273
Comments: 7
Kudos: 180
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	The Well at the Edge of the World

Jaskier had been only a boy when sickness had spread through Lettenhove. High up in the castle that looked down on the town sprawling below, he would have remained blissfully unaware of it all; the men with their sinister, pointed masks like ravens stalking the streets; the wagons carting their gruesome payload beyond the walls; the red crosses painted like blood on so many doors. Until it had claimed his mother.

He had gone to her, ready to tug on her skirts until she was following him outside to marvel at the leaves turning vibrant red as the summer died away, only to find her bed surrounded by physicians, and himself quickly ushered from the room. She was gone before the first autumn leaf fell, leaving Jaskier with nothing but her beautifully carved lute and the memory of a serene voice accompanying it.

Anella was in the castle by the year's end. And Jaskier's mother's lute was kindling when next the weather turned cold.

Jaskier watched them now, she and his father sat by the fire in the great hall smiling at Jaskier's half-brother Piotr as he read aloud, despite the hacking coughs that interrupted every sentence, already making plans for his birthday celebrations in the spring.

It was Jaskier's own birthday today.

The Earl met his eyes from across the room, his gaze turning sharp at the sight of Jaskier lingering in the shadows. "Why are you not in the kitchens?" he said.

Without a word, Jaskier turned to head back out of the hall. He had long ago learnt that there was no point attempting to argue with his father — though the urge did still sometimes get the better of him, often to his own detriment. It was probably for the best, then, that he spent so much of his time in the hidden parts of the castle rather than around the refined company the Earl kept.

"Oi," said a voice from farther up the dingy corridor that led to the kitchens, "little lord."

Jaskier smiled. "Fuck off."

Ethel stepped out of the shadows to offer Jaskier a deep, mocking curtsey. Her dress clung slightly to her belly as she straightened — too many of Lenka's fig tarts, he reckoned. He had a hard time keeping from stuffing his face with them as well, especially now he spent most of his days in the kitchens, whether to help with the preparations for the endless banquets his father hosted, or to drink and play cards with the staff. Ethel was one of the scullery maids, a year or two older than Jaskier, and had been the one to show Jaskier the ropes when he had been ordered to scrub what had felt like half the castle, after he had let his tongue get the better of him.

She had shown him a few other things over the years, as well.

"Granddad wants to see you," she said.

Jaskier was quite certain the old man had no children, nor indeed grandchildren, of his own, yet he had worked at the castle for so long none of them had ever known another name for him. He was simply Granddad, the name spoken with varying levels of endearment, depending on who was addressing him. He was sat outside his cabin in the castle grounds when Jaskier found him, eyes closed to soak up the last rays of summer.

"People usually only want to see me when I'm in trouble," said Jaskier, as he came to join Granddad on his bench.

"The way I hear it, that'll be because you're usually getting yourself into trouble." He cracked an eye open to shoot Jaskier a knowing look, and Jaskier grinned back at him. "Got a gift for you, boy," he said. "Honour of your special day, and all that."

"You didn't have to."

Granddad waved a dismissive hand and sat forward to pull a wooden box out from beneath the bench. He nodded for Jaskier to open it.

Jaskier lifted the box into his lap and flicked open the clasps. Inside was a lute, not as ornate as Jaskier remembered his mother's being, but clearly well made, and still beautiful in its simplicity. He held his breath, as if he was afraid breathing near the instrument would somehow ruin it, and gently plucked at the strings.

"You made this?" he said, his voice thick with emotion, while he ran his fingers over the polished wood.

"Aye. Storm toppled your mother's tree last winter," he said, nodding to the spot where the yew tree Jaskier's mother had had Granddad plant long before Jaskier was born had once stood. "Couldn't think of a finer use for it."

"It's wonderful."

"You'd best learn to play it again now."

Jaskier nodded, gazing back down at the lute as Granddad gave him a too-hard pat on the shoulder and went back to his work. He pulled his lute out of the box, plucking experimentally as he wandered through the gardens and took a seat at his mother's spot. He didn't know where she had been buried — carted off with all the others to the plague pits, he suspected — but Jaskier always liked to imagine this was her grave. She used to sit for hours in this spot, a book or an instrument in hand while Jaskier played nearby.

In his mind, Jaskier had pictured himself placing his fingers on the lute and inspiration flowing through him, his muse awakened by the simple act of clutching an instrument in his hands, telling him exactly what he needed to do. Instead, he fumbled, notes twanging discordantly as he tried to determine what exactly he was supposed to be doing with his fingers and when.

His mother had always made this look so easy.

But he didn't give up. Jaskier sat there amongst the roses and the leaves turning yellow with the dying season, his tongue poked between his lips and brow furrowed in concentration as he practised, until it was too dark to see his fingers on the strings. The only lights guiding his way back towards the castle were the few left burning in the windows.

Ethel was there waiting for him again when he stepped back into the kitchens, his lute tucked under his arm. "Like your present?"

"I couldn't ask for a better one."

"That's a shame, then," she said. There was a mischievous glint in her eye when Jaskier cocked his head in confusion. She teased at the laces of her dress. "I suppose you won't want to unwrap mine now."

With a grin, Jaskier followed her into the shadows.

He didn't see Ethel after that. When weeks had passed without catching even a glimpse of her saffron-coloured curls, Jaskier had grown curious enough that he was about to start asking around. He didn't have chance, however, before he was hauled before his father, sat stern and grey-faced in his council seat, Anella wearing a similarly sour expression at his side.

Jaskier sat down with a frown. It was hardly an unusual occurrence, of course, invoking the wrath of the Earl, yet Jaskier had been trying his best to keep his nose clean — or at least, keeping the knowledge of his exploits down in the Twin Bells tavern from his father. Since the Earl would sooner cut off his legs than set foot in that part of town, it was easy enough. Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, between them as his father's eyes, the same colour as Jaskier's own yet somehow so unlike his, stayed fixed on him.

"I'm sure by now you're aware of the girl Ethel's condition," he said finally.

"Condition?" Jaskier's eyes widened. "Is she sick?"

Anella snorted beside his father, as if she found something highly amusing. "It's a sickness, all right," she muttered. Then, to Jaskier: "the girl has found herself with child. She has of course been removed from service within the castle."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Come now, Julian; let's not play games," said the Earl. "Do you realise the harm it would do if word spreads that a Pankratz has fathered illegitimate children all over town?"

Jaskier gaped back at him.

"It is an embarrassment," agreed Anella. She turned to the Earl. "He cannot be allowed to remain in the castle." She spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing something as commonplace as the arrangements for their next ball. As if Jaskier wasn't sat right in fucking front of them.

His father hummed in agreement.

"Hang on," said Jaskier. "You can't just turf me out. The child isn't even mine."

"And we're to believe that?" said his father.

"There was a boy in town Ethel was going about with as well. The blacksmith's ward. She said she thought they might marry next year."

Besides, Jaskier was well aware of the art of conception, and quite certain that the two of them had not engaged in that particular act for many months. Though somehow he doubted that detailing the various things they had been up to instead would improve the situation for him.

As it was, his father continued to stare back at him, unimpressed. And increasingly Jaskier was beginning to suspect that the outcome of this conversation had been decided long before he had even sat down.

Anella was the first to break the silent stalemate. "Perhaps," she began, cocking her head to one side as though a thought had suddenly occurred to her, "we could give the boy a second chance." Her eyes shifted to Jaskier's father. There was something coldly calculating within them. "On a condition, of course."

The Earl looked back at her. "Go on."

"Well, the boy has shown scant regard for the Pankratz name," she said. "If he were to somehow demonstrate his loyalty, to prove how much he cares about the family line, it may behove you to show clemency."

Jaskier looked between them. His father seemed to be considering the idea, at least. "What do you want me to do?" he said.

"Your brother's health continues to deteriorate, despite his physicians' care. Having exhausted all scientific avenues of treatment, it would seem our only option remaining is to explore those of a more mystical nature."

"Mystical?"

Jaskier frowned. He'd read books on all sorts of creatures and curiosities, but he was about as far from a mage as it was possible for a man to get.

"I'm sure you have heard the stories. There is a well far in the north of Kaedwen, at the edge of the world; its water is said to contain healing properties. They used to give it to young witchers to help them survive their trials. If you were to return with a pail, it would see your brother restored and secure the future of the Pankratz line. In return, I'm sure your father would be happy to forget this little indiscretion ever happened."

She met the Earl's eyes once again and they studied one another in silence, their expressions unreadable. Eventually, he gave a curt nod and turned his attention back to Jaskier.

"Make your choice, boy."

As far as Jaskier could see, it was no choice at all. He didn't say that, of course.

"I'll do it," he said.

And so early the next morning Jaskier had his bag packed and was stood in the courtyard making his farewells. His family was not among those gathered to see him off. Lenka pulled him into a tight hug, before thrusting a wrapped bundle into his hands. Jaskier lifted one corner of the cloth and grinned. Inside was a fresh batch of fig tarts.

"For the road," she said with a wrinkled smile.

Jaskier slung his lute over his shoulder and stepped through the castle gates. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't help feeling a ripple of excitement as he descended the hill into town. He had spent his life reading tales of other people's adventures, and here he was finally setting off on one of his own. There may not be dragons to slay and fair maidens to romance, but it was something, at least.

His feet paused at the entrance to the narrow lane which accounted for Lettenhove's least savoury neighbourhood. This point was the farthest he had ever strayed from home. Each step beyond it would be uncharted territory. Jaskier glanced down the lane towards the Twin Bells, still quiet and calm in the early morning, drunkards slumped over its tables yet to awaken to greet their hangovers. He smiled, and went on past.

As the houses grew farther apart and sprawling farmland replaced the maze of streets, Jaskier helped himself to a tart, and pondered how long his journey would take him.

The wide, cobbled road melted into one of dirt, and the dirt road became a narrow path of tamped down grass, and then even that too was swallowed up by the wilds of the countryside as Lettenhove shrank out of view behind him. Jaskier knew Kaedwen lay to the north-east, so that was the direction he headed. Where he had to go to find this mystical well once he had reached Kaedwen, he would have to discover for himself on the way.

He walked a meandering trail that kept him close enough to civilisation to bid each fellow traveller he encountered a cheery salutation, amusing himself in the quiet stretches between by imagining the adventures each was off to pursue.

He wondered if his own would prove the most exciting of them all.

It didn't take long for Jaskier to learn that the stories of gallant knights and roguish adventurers he had devoured as a boy may have glossed over the rather less romantic aspects of the tales.

The food Jaskier had packed had lasted barely more than a fortnight, and once that was gone his coin quickly followed it. In its wake, Jaskier had taken to frequenting each tavern he passed. Usually he could charm his way into somebody's bed for a night, or at the very least get a good meal and an ale or two out of it.

During the long, lonely hours he walked each day Jaskier had been practising with his lute, until his fingers moved easily over the strings and he could piece together a half-decent melody, if he did say so himself. And so in the firelight and the chatter of each tavern he would get to his feet, clear his throat, and take it upon himself to entertain the patrons. It passed the time, and it earned him — well, not coin, sadly, but of the food that was hurled at him much of it was still just about edible.

He was finding his way to get by.

Now, Jaskier was sat hunched in the corner of a tavern even rowdier than the Twin Bells, surveying his bounty scattered on the table in front of him. Four ducats — his payment for shutting up, so the man had said as he'd pelted them at Jaskier — not nearly enough to pay for a room for the night, and a few stale bread rolls. He shoved them into his bag for the morning, and gazed back out of the window.

It was not yet winter, but Jaskier could feel its icy tendrils creeping ever nearer; the growing chill in the night air that kept him awake and shivering beside his pitiful campfire; the rain that pounded hard and cold against his skin as he walked on, soaking through his clothes until he was too despondent and uncomfortable to drown out the voice in the back of his mind telling him this had been a mistake. Through the window he could see the trees at the edge of the town swaying violently in the wind. He really didn't want to spend another night out there.

Jaskier glanced back around the room. Considering how appreciative they had been of his playing, he doubted any of his fellow patrons would take kindly to Jaskier attempting to seduce them. He wasn't sure he had the energy for it, anyway.

So with a weary sigh, Jaskier gathered his things and stepped back out into the cold, making his way through quiet streets towards the trees. Fortunately he had not yet encountered any monsters lurking in the woods when he made camp each night — though given the rather rotten state of his luck, he could probably expect that to change before too long. He found a sheltered spot within the woods and unfurled his bedroll, pulling his cloak tighter about himself as he settled down for the night.

It would be worth it, he told himself, once again. A little discomfort was a small price to pay for a good story.

Jaskier had encountered his first snowfall within a few days of crossing the border into Kaedwen. A light dusting at first, just enough to lift Jaskier's spirits and have him gazing up at the skies with a smile to watch the flakes drift lazily to the earth, though the farther north Jaskier travelled, the heavier it fell.

He probably should have anticipated that before he left home. He might have had the good sense to pack some warmer clothes.

A shiver wracked his body as he watched the sputtering fire he had lit, waiting for the wood to catch. He was learning to tolerate the cold and the wet, and the hunger and the lack of sleep, though that didn't mean he'd not prefer to find himself with a thicker cloak and a roaring fire to warm him. And a hearty beer, and a hot meal in his belly. Perhaps a comely companion pressed to his side as well. He closed his eyes and smiled to himself at the thought.

It had been two days at least since he had laid eyes on another person. As he'd ventured farther into the heart of Kaedwen the distance between settlements had grown, and the travellers he passed were becoming rarer — and far less welcoming.

Staring out across the barren, snowy moor, he could understand why the people were as rugged as the landscape. Absently, he wondered if it was the harshness of the northern winters that hardened people, or whether people of a certain temperament simply found themselves drawn to Kaedwen. As he contemplated that idea, Jaskier pressed his feet closer to the fire and shivered once more.

At the next gust of bitter wind, his fire flickered and burnt out.

"Fuck," sighed Jaskier.

He hauled himself to his feet and trekked over to the solitary tree clinging feebly to the banks of the Gwenllech. One good storm and it was sure to go crashing into the river. Jaskier snapped off every last branch he could sever and turned back to his camp, though before he could set to rebuilding his fire, he spotted movement in the distance.

A wagon on the path, drawing closer.

Leading it was a hunched, grizzled-looking man, of the type who had proved to have little patience for Jaskier long before he had set foot beyond Lettenhove's borders. But Jaskier had never let that deter him in the past, and was certainly not about to do so now.

"Good sir," called Jaskier as he raced towards the wagon. The man came to a reluctant stop and stared back at Jaskier balefully. "Might you be able to aid a weary traveller on a quest of utmost significance?"

The man's face didn't change, and nor did he say anything. Jaskier pressed on before he could.

"I have been entreated to seek out a fabled well in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, its waters pure enough to cure any ailment."

"I heard of it," the old man said. He sounded about as impressed as he looked, which was to say, not at all. "Not known anyone to go lookin' for it for a long time."

"Do you know where I might find it?"

"It's in witcher country, boy. You're best staying well away."

"I thank you for the warning, sir, though I fear I must continue on," said Jaskier. Besides, he had nothing to fear from a witcher. He was no foul beast, nor in possession of anything of value that a witcher might be compelled to steal in absence of a contract.

Of course, they might see fit to kill Jaskier before they made the attempt to rob him, in which case Jaskier would most certainly be doomed. Best not to think about that possibility.

The man sighed, but he jutted his bristled chin northwards. "Follow the river 'til you can't no more. You'll come to it in time. Best hurry though," he added, "before they turn in for the winter. Their sort don't take too kindly to folks sniffing about in their neck o' the woods."

With that, he spurred his haggard draught horse on, trundling along the path without a parting word or glance.

Jaskier was too used to it by now to take offense. Besides, he had got what he'd been after. With renewed purpose he made his way back to his little camp by the river, but rather than rebuilding his fire and settling in to await the coming sunset as he had planned, Jaskier quickly gathered his belongings. There were perhaps a few hours left before the evening grew too dark to see; Jaskier could make good progress in that time.

He set off to follow the river.

For the next week, Jaskier kept the icy path it cut through the landscape in sight as he walked for as long as he was able each day, too exhausted to be kept awake by the cold each night, until the terrain grew steeper and the rocky ground on either side of the Gwenllech too difficult to traverse. He found himself straying farther and farther from the river just to find a way through the increasingly hostile environment.

But he didn't stop. He could feel the end of his quest within reach.

Legs heavy and feet throbbing with cold and pain, Jaskier stumbled through the trees, his breath misting in front of him with every rattled gasp that left him. He was well into the mountains by now, the snowy ground so steep it was taking more effort than Jaskier could muster just to keep himself upright.

When he got back to Lettenhove, Jaskier was going to sleep for a month.

He closed his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. If he imagined the hot bath he planned to sink into upon his return hard enough, perhaps it might bring some feeling back to his frozen extremities. He would need to stop soon — the sun had already sunk below the mountains, and Jaskier could not risk a misplaced step in the darkness — but he pushed himself on just a little farther. He could see vague shapes beyond the trees. Another few minutes and he would reach them.

The woods came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a village. Or rather, what had once been a village. There wasn't much left but the blackened, crumbling remains of a handful of stone huts now. Jaskier's steps slowed as he walked through the ruins, an eerie silence in the air that had Jaskier holding his breath, like he was afraid to disturb the place by making a sound.

He considered what could have happened here; who had lived in the village; whether they had escaped before it had been turned to ash. It looked almost as if the place had been scorched by dragon fire, though Jaskier had only ever heard of such an event in legends. Certainly the creatures were rare enough that word of one burning villages to a crisp would surely spread across the Continent like, well, dragon fire.

Before he could ponder the nature of dragons any further, Jaskier's gaze drifted to what must have once been the village square, and caught. In its centre was a well.

This had to be the place. It was the only thing close to civilisation Jaskier had found since he had reached the mountains. Jaskier scrambled towards it, dropping his things to his sides as he pressed his palms to the snow-topped wall surrounding it, and peered down into its shadowy depths.

He had expected there to be a little more fanfare accompanying this moment, but given the state of his surroundings, perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised to find it absent. There would be celebrations enough when he returned home, he supposed.

Jaskier had to throw his body weight behind him as he pushed at the winch just to get it moving, stiff after untold years of disuse, but once he had freed it he was able to lower the bucket without too much difficulty. With each push he listened, and waited, wondering just how deep the well was.

He soon had his answer. Instead of the splash Jaskier was listening for, there was the dull thud of the bucket hitting something solid. And another, when Jaskier tried again.

"No, no, no," said Jaskier to himself. He hadn't come all this way just to find the well fucking frozen.

In the debris of the ruined village Jaskier picked up the largest fragment of stone he could find, staggering back to the well to drop it into the depths. A moment's pause, and then that same awful sound. The ice remained intact.

" _Fuck_!"

He dropped to the ground, his back slamming too hard against the side of the well, the snow soaking through his clothes, but he couldn't bring himself to care about either. Hot tears stung his eyes, and Jaskier did nothing to try and keep them from falling. He was too shattered to hold back his frustration any longer.

Like a dam had burst somewhere deep within his chest, it hit him: all the misery and anger and hopelessness he had been trying so desperately to ignore, and all Jaskier could do was sit there and sob.

His father would not let him home without a pail of the well's healing water. And Jaskier could not wait months for it to thaw. With no food, no coin, and no friendly faces to offer him aid, he would be dead long before that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned whether that had been his parents' plan all along.

In the morning, Jaskier was sure he would have the energy to devise a way around this new, unfortunate quandary, but for tonight, he was content to sit and wallow in misery. He had damn well earned it. And so he cried, and he cursed at his father and the gods and himself, and when he had calmed down again he scrubbed at his eyes with the ragged sleeve of his doublet and looked up.

His heart seized in his chest.

Stark against the darkness, its steps silent, a pale grey wolf was prowling through the snow towards him.

Jaskier pressed himself back against the well — though what good he thought it might do him, he didn't know; the wolf was already looking right at him — and he held his breath as the wolf stalked nearer. The creature was beautiful, Jaskier had to admit. Even if it was the reason he was about to pass out from sheer terror.

The wolf came to a stop barely a stone's throw away from Jaskier's feet. Its eyes didn't leave Jaskier's, almost seeming to glow in the darkness, but instead of lunging for Jaskier's throat it simply sat and watched him. Somehow, that almost seemed worse.

"Well," breathed Jaskier, as he and the wolf continued to stare at one another, "as far as deaths go, I suppose it's better to go out quick than waste away in the cold." He swallowed. "It can't be all bad, if it'll help keep you fed for the winter."

Jaskier closed his eyes and took his final, shaking breath, waiting for the rush of air as the wolf pounced, and the pain of sharp teeth sinking in to his throat.

"What are you doing?"

He cracked an eye open, then the other. The wolf was still sat watching him — perhaps it had been tamed as a cub and had simply been waiting for its master to join them? — and, satisfied for the moment that he wasn't at immediate risk of being eaten, Jaskier glanced around for the owner of the voice he had heard. He saw no-one.

If it had been a trick of his own mind, Jaskier would have thought the voice to be familiar, not the low, rumbling growl he had heard, which was surely not the kind of voice his mind would readily decide to supply. Unless…

Slowly, Jaskier's gaze turned back to the wolf in front of him. It blinked its yellow eyes as if in response.

"Well now I have most certainly gone insane," said Jaskier. Perhaps all of this was a particularly bizarre dream he had slipped into, and he would wake up come morning curled at the base of the well mercifully intact. Or better yet, back in his own bed in Lettenhove, having never set foot through its gates.

"If you're trying to extract water from a frozen well, you are," said the voice.

Jaskier couldn't see the wolf's mouth move; rather, the words seemed to take form in Jaskier's mind, yet there was no other creature around who could have put voice to them. He wondered if this was a skill that all wolves possessed, gone unnoticed because any who strayed close enough to hear did not live to tell the tale.

He also wondered if he was being utterly ridiculous.

"All right, no need to get nasty," Jaskier found himself saying, though, again, he couldn't find a logical reason why. Talking to a wolf, which may or may not have been talking back, was without question the strangest thing Jaskier had ever done.

"I can help you."

Jaskier blinked. "What?"

"You want to get to the water," said the wolf. "I can show you another way to reach it, if you'll grant me a favour in return."

It seemed an offer too good to be true. And Jaskier was surely capable of working this out on his own, rather than finding himself indebted to a creature that would probably be quite glad to take a bite out of him. But what if Jaskier couldn't find a way to complete his quest? He was already cold and hungry and exhausted; what harm could there be in accepting an offer to end this now?

"Anything," Jaskier replied.

A brief nod of its snowy head, and the wolf was standing, walking away without waiting for Jaskier to join it. Jaskier scrambled to collect his things and hurried after the wolf. It led him through a narrow valley, scraggy trees clinging to the steep rock on either side making it so that Jaskier had to hunch down to keep himself from being scratched to pieces, though the wolf strolled through unhindered.

"What's your name?" Jaskier said as they made their way… somewhere.

The wolf said nothing — which, really, shouldn't have been something worthy of note. How quickly Jaskier's view of the world had been turned on its head. But then, he supposed, was a wolf that could talk really that strange in a world filled with monsters and magic?

"My name is Jaskier. Julian, really, but only my parents call me that. They are the ones who sent me here. I don't suppose they're expecting me to actually come back, but I'll certainly find it satisfying to prove them wrong. Can all wolves talk, by the way, or are you just special?"

The wolf paused and glanced back at him. And if wolves could give withering stares, Jaskier was quite sure he was staring back at one. He had to remind himself that this was a creature capable of killing him without a modicum of effort, but even then, Jaskier had trouble remembering he was supposed to be scared.

"Oh come on," he said. "This is the first time I've had a proper conversation with someone in weeks."

"This is a proper conversation?"

"Well, your communication skills could use a little polishing, but I'll take what I can get."

The wolf turned back to the path — such as it was. Clearly this was a passage used by creatures of the four-legged variety rather than anything resembling a human. "Wolves can't talk," it said after a quiet moment.

"So what are you, then?"

"Something else."

They came to a stop at a narrow opening in the mountainside, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through, which was fortunate. Jaskier followed the wolf inside. The moonlight did not follow him in turn.

"Watch your step," said the wolf.

"That would be a good deal easier if I could actually see anything." He pressed his hand to the cave wall, the rock cold and jagged beneath his palm, and fumbled forwards in the darkness.

The ground sloped downwards beneath his feet, but it was a relatively smooth surface, only the occasional rock jutting up out of the earth to try and trip him. He did catch something long and thin with his boot which rolled away with a suspiciously hollow sound, and then another a few minutes later. Jaskier didn't let himself imagine what they might be.

"Is this where you live?" he said.

He should have known better than to expect a response.

Perhaps it was Jaskier's eyes finally adjusting to the dark, but he could swear the cave was growing lighter around them while they descended. He could actually make out the vague shape of his hand against the wall now, and ahead the wolf's pale fur was just visible in the gloom. As the light grew brighter, Jaskier looked up and saw it: dotted all over the ceiling were clusters of innumerable softly glowing insects, casting the cave in an ethereal bluish glow. It was magical.

"I've never read about these," said Jaskier. The cave seemed to glitter as the insects moved, and he stared up at them in wonderment. "What are they?"

"A nuisance, for the most part."

Whether that assessment was true or not, the creatures lit the way — and yes, those were _definitely_ bones Jaskier was stepping over. Gods. He turned his attention back up to the ceiling. And it wasn't long before Jaskier could hear the faint trickling sounds of moving water.

Finally they came to the end of the cave. They stepped into a chamber just big enough to be comfortable, a narrow stream cutting through it, and Jaskier dropped to his knees. He sunk his hands into the water, just to make sure it was real. It was delightfully frigid as it swirled around his fingers.

"Oh, I could kiss you," said Jaskier. "Though I imagine you wouldn't take kindly to that, would you?"

"I honoured my end of the bargain," said the wolf, and when Jaskier gazed over his shoulder towards it the creature was sat looking at him, waiting.

"You did," said Jaskier. He pulled his hands out of the stream and turned to face the wolf. "What do you want from me in return?"

"I want you to kill me."

The words took a moment to sink in. The silence hung heavy and awful after they had.

"What?" Jaskier managed in the end. Surely he hadn't heard right, or had misunderstood, perhaps. There had to be some explanation forthcoming that would make sense of the request.

"You said you would do anything."

"I'm not going to kill you," said Jaskier. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"We made a deal. You are honour bound to uphold it."

Jaskier shook his head. "Ask me to do something else."

"This is all I need."

" _Why_?"

He could feel tears gathering in his eyes again, and the wolf ducked his head beneath Jaskier's arm. For a moment Jaskier thought it was to comfort him, until he felt the gentle nudging at his hip, right where his dagger was tucked into his belt. The wolf nosed it free and it clattered to the ground by Jaskier's hand. It sat back and met Jaskier's eyes again.

"Please," said Jaskier. The tears spilled down his cheeks. "Please don't make me do this."

The wolf just stared back at him.

"I could run."

"You wouldn't get far," said the wolf. It nudged Jaskier's hand until he felt cold metal touch his skin. "Think of it as a kindness."

Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut as his hand lingered over the blade. "Tell me you're certain," he whispered.

"I'm certain."

With a slow nod, Jaskier unsheathed his dagger. He dragged the back of his hand over his wet cheeks, trying desperately to keep his breathing steady as he shifted closer to the wolf. Its fur was soft and warm beneath his fingers when he reached out for it.

The wolf stayed stock-still, not even breathing, much like Jaskier had when he had thought himself for this fate. Bile rising at the back of his throat at the thought of what was to come, Jaskier plunged his knife in.

"I'm sorry," he breathed as he lowered the wolf to the ground, and Jaskier lay down beside it, heavy sobs wracking his body.

He fell asleep like that, his face buried in the wolf's fur, its body gradually going cold in his arms.

The ground was cool and hard beneath him when Jaskier awoke, the cave lit by that dim blue glow of the creatures undulating overhead, and awareness came back to him slowly. Jaskier didn't bother to move once it had. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to gaze down at the lifeless wolf at his side just yet.

It hardly felt like what he'd done had been worth it.

He could still hear the stream trickling, taunting, nearby — yet there was something else alongside the sound, he realised. A soft, slow breathing.

Jaskier sat up.

Beside him was a man, his hair the same snowy grey as the wolf's fur had been, lying naked as the day he was born and — _well_. Jaskier averted his eyes when he realised they had begun to wander. He tugged off his cloak and draped it over the man's rather considerable bulk to stop his shivering.

The moment the fabric touched his skin the man's eyes were snapping open, and he shot upright with a growl, teeth bared. Jaskier scuttled backwards until his back hit the cave wall. Somehow, the wolf had seemed less threatening.

He needn't have been too concerned, however. The man didn't seem to even notice Jaskier was there. Instead he blinked a few times, trying to orient himself, before looking down at his body as if he had never seen it before. He touched a cautious hand to his skin. Skin that was covered in scars, Jaskier noticed. And one ugly red wound in his side, fresher than all the others.

"It's you, isn't it?" said Jaskier.

The man looked up at him then. His eyes were yellow.

"Geralt," he said. The word came out rough, but even coarse from disuse the voice was unmistakeable. He pulled Jaskier's cloak around himself and, reminded of Geralt's nakedness — though quite how he could be expected to forget that sight, Jaskier didn't know — Jaskier fumbled for his bag.

"Here," he said.

He tossed Geralt a shirt and spare pair of trousers. They may not be the best fit, but it was certainly better than nothing in the cold. As Geralt pulled Jaskier's shirt over his head, Jaskier eyed the medallion around his neck, the one thing that seemed to have survived his transformation. There was a wolf's head on it — which seemed especially cruel given the state Jaskier had found him in.

"Are you a witcher?"

He gave a curt nod.

"I've never met a witcher before."

"I've never met anyone who talks this much."

"'Thank you, Jaskier, for helping me out of my terrible predicament,'" said Jaskier, since apparently Geralt wasn't about to do so himself. "'What a noble, selfless act you have committed, despite the intolerable pain it caused you to sink that blade into my flesh.'"

Geralt's lips twitched; not quite a smile, but from the grizzled look of him it might be the closest he came to it. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome."

Jaskier sat back, definitely _not_ watching from the corner of his eye as Geralt stood to climb into Jaskier's trousers. They were a little short in the leg, and tight all over, which sent a ripple of heat through Jaskier's veins, though they would do until they could find Geralt some clothes of his own. Jaskier hoped Geralt might have some ideas how to go about that, since Jaskier didn't have the means to source much of anything these days.

"So what happened to you?"

Geralt sat back down, his back against the wall opposite Jaskier, and closed his eyes for a moment. Even under the softening effects of the cavern's glow he looked exhausted, and Jaskier contemplated just how much the transformation had taken out of him. He draped his cloak back over Geralt, and Geralt didn't shrug off Jaskier's fussing.

"Took a contract to get rid of a golem that had been causing trouble," he said. "The mage didn't take too kindly to me destroying his creation."

"So he cursed you?"

Another nod.

"I read a book about curses once," said Jaskier. "I didn't sleep for a week afterwards, I was so afraid I'd wake up to find various bits falling off, or turned into lizards or some such."

Geralt's eyes were still closed, but that little smirk was back on his face. "You've read about a lot of things, I'm guessing."

"If you'd ever spent time in Lettenhove, you'd know that there really isn't all that much else to do. How did you know me killing the wolf would turn you back?"

"I didn't."

Jaskier blinked. "Oh," he said, then: "Is that the only reason you helped me?"

"There's nothing special about the water," answered Geralt, and he tossed a stone into it with a satisfying plop that echoed about the cavern. "I don't know where that stupid story came from."

And with that, the last lingering glimmer of hope in Jaskier's chest was extinguished. He couldn't find it in himself to feel hurt by Geralt's actions, though. If he had been placed in the same position, he'd have few scruples about using a stranger to get what he wanted, either.

When he looked up again those curious yellow eyes were on him. There was something soft in them that made Jaskier want to move in closer.

"What is it?" said Geralt.

"I'm just wondering what I'm supposed to do now. My father will never let me back home without it."

He could defy his father's expectations and return with the pail, though it would of course do nothing to improve his brother's health. And it would be all too easy for his parents to then make the claim that Jaskier had simply spent all this time cadding about, before returning with a pail of the first water he came across. He would be out on his ear once again within weeks.

Or he could tell them the truth, and pray that they might just believe him.

"Why do you even want to go back?" said Geralt.

What kind of question was that? Jaskier didn't say that out loud, of course. Geralt was a witcher; Jaskier was fairly certain they didn't have homes or families at all, so he could forgive Geralt's lack of understanding.

"Well, where else would I go?"

"Anywhere."

"Is that what you do? Just wander the Continent, looking for adventures wherever you might find them?"

"Something like that," said Geralt.

Jaskier pondered that for a long, quiet moment.

 _Anywhere_. He rather liked the sound of it.

Looking back at Geralt, it was easy to imagine him a solitary figure on the road, nothing but an endless landscape of possibility stretching out before him. Jaskier felt a small pang of sadness at the realisation that Geralt was sure to go straight back to that life now, and Jaskier would be left in his wake to… well, Jaskier didn't know what he was going to do.

Silence settled over them while Jaskier lost himself in thought, though it wasn't an uncomfortable one — which was odd. Usually Jaskier found any stretch of calm, no matter how brief, to be utterly excruciating. But he was content for the moment to allow the quiet to stretch on, despite the endless questions brimming up inside him, desperate to get out. He could hold on to them for the moment.

"When did you last eat?" said Geralt, suddenly, and Jaskier stared back at him in confusion. "I can hear your stomach growling."

"Oh. Well yes, it has been rather longer than I'd prefer. My hunting skills have proved somewhat lacking, unfortunately."

Geralt was up then, tossing Jaskier's cloak aside as he swept to his feet with far more grace than one would expect of a man who, until very recently, was incapable of walking on his hind legs. "Come with me," he said.

Jaskier grabbed his things without a moment's hesitation. "Where are we going?"

"Home."

They made their way back up through the cave, out of the darkness into too-bright midday sunlight, and Jaskier gazed over at Geralt to take a proper look at him. He was beautiful, in a rugged way which Jaskier had always happened to find particularly appealing, his face tilted up towards the sun to feel its distant warmth on his skin.

After a moment, Geralt's eyes met his. "What?" he said, though from his tone Jaskier suspected he already knew.

"Nothing. Are you sure you're fit to travel?"

"Fit enough."

Jaskier followed Geralt as they climbed even higher into the mountains. Geralt didn't speak much, though he did offer various grunts in response to Jaskier's ever-growing list of questions, which Jaskier supposed was probably about as much as he could hope for. And as the day wore on and the climb grew more strenuous, Jaskier found himself too busy for much conversation anyway, his attention focused on clinging on lest a poorly placed foot send him down the sheer rock face at their side.

The trek alongside the Gwenllech was but a leisurely stroll compared to this.

How Geralt, barefoot and hardly in peak condition after what he had been through, could manage the climb without complaint, Jaskier couldn't understand. He'd have asked if he had had breath to spare.

Eventually the path widened enough that Jaskier no longer felt at risk of imminent death, and after a long pause to catch his breath, Jaskier looked up. An immense fortress loomed in the shadow of the mountain's highest peak; battle-worn, vast sections of its stone walls collapsed and neglected, yet still magnificent in its own way.

Jaskier had read about the sacking of Kaer Morhen, of course, though he had never imagined the keep still remained.

He looked over at Geralt, who was gazing up at the ruined keep as if he'd never seen anything so beautiful. "How long has it been?" said Jaskier.

"Years."

Jaskier reached a hand out to give a reassuring squeeze to Geralt's wrist. He didn't know what possessed him to do it — surely anyone who dared to reach for a witcher without express permission had a questionable sense of self-preservation, or at the very least wasn't particularly attached to all of their extremities — but Geralt only smiled at him in response.

They carried on, up into the courtyard of the keep and through the heavy wooden doors of the building itself. "This way," said Geralt, and he led Jaskier through the fortress into the kitchens.

The hearth was lit, though the flames were dying down as if they had not been tended to for some time. Still, it was more than enough for Jaskier's purposes, and he hurried across the room to warm his frozen hands while Geralt loaded more food than Jaskier had laid eyes on in months onto a plate for each of them.

Geralt took a seat and pushed the other plate towards Jaskier without a word.

"Thank you," said Jaskier as he dragged a stool over to sit beside Geralt, and Geralt shrugged in response.

Jaskier ate with a gracelessness that would have given his father apoplexy to witness, though Geralt was hardly about to judge him for his lack of manners when he was tearing into his food with equal vigour beside him. And as they ate, Jaskier allowed his gaze to wander around the room; the supplies both familiar and otherworldly piled atop the tables lining the walls; the staircase disappearing into the shadows that he could see through an open door; a silver of more snowy courtyards visible through the narrow slit of a window.

Maybe Geralt would show him around before Jaskier made his way back out into the world. It would be improper, perhaps; Jaskier didn't know the rules on whether or not non-witchers were really allowed inside the fortress, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right here in front of him. It would be remiss of him not to even ask. He might wait until Geralt had filled his belly before broaching the subject, however.

Beside him, Geralt straightened without a sound, his eyes fixed on the door as he climbed to his feet.

"What is it?" said Jaskier, but Geralt didn't seem to be listening. Not to Jaskier, at least.

A moment later the door pushed open, and a man stepped into the kitchens, quiet as the dead. There was a sword clutched in his hand, though the moment his eyes went to Geralt he slipped it back into the sheath at his belt.

"Thought you were dead, lad," he said, rather more casually than Jaskier felt the situation should really warrant, and he turned to collect the large bundle of firewood he had obviously set down outside at the sound of an apparent intruder. The man looked far too old for such heavy lifting, yet he handled the bundle with ease.

"Cursed," replied Geralt. As if the word could possibly encompass the entirety of his ordeal.

The old man simply nodded in response. His eyes flicked to Jaskier then. "You're the one who found him, I take it?"

Jaskier hastily wiped his hands on his trousers and rounded the table to outstretch one towards the man. "Jul—" he began, before quickly swallowing the sound. His father's name meant nothing up here. "Jaskier," he said instead.

"Jaskier," the man repeated, like he was committing the name to memory. He gave another short, sharp nod before turning to set down his logs by the fire. Jaskier dropped his hand back to his side.

"This is Vesemir," Geralt said to Jaskier, with an amused twitch of his lips. He looked back at the old man. "Eskel and Lambert?"

"Still alive, last I heard. Should be along before the pass closes."

He stoked the fire until it swelled and crackled merrily, and straightened to take in the sight of Geralt and Jaskier once more.

"You boys look like you've been through it," he said. He was not one for overstatement, apparently. "Go get some rest. We can swap stories in the morning."

"I can find my own way," said Jaskier as Geralt moved to show him back out into the great hall. "You must be desperate to reconnect with your…" He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Vesemir, who was now effortlessly lifting an enormous pot into place above the fire.

Jaskier wondered how strong Geralt must be if this was what an elder witcher was still capable of, and then promptly tried to stop himself imagining it.

"There's time enough for that," said Geralt. He led Jaskier up through the keep, Jaskier's gaze trying to travel over everything at once as they walked, until Geralt pushed open a door and stood back for Jaskier to step inside.

The fire roared to life as Jaskier stepped into the room, chasing away the cold and the dark. It wasn't a space of creature comforts; none of the rugs or tapestries or various accoutrements that decorated the many bedrooms Jaskier had visited in his life, but still there was the sense of it being home. There were books in neat piles on the tables; collections of glass vials with different coloured contents dotted about the room; a blanket draped over the chair by the fire, as if waiting to be wrapped around someone — and all of it covered in a thick layer of dust.

"This is your room?"

Geralt nodded. "You can sleep here. I'll sleep in Eskel's room."

"Stay a while," said Jaskier, before Geralt could disappear back out of the room. He was still hovering in the doorway like he was afraid to step inside. "I wouldn't dream of kicking you out of your own bedroom when you've gone so long without being able to even set foot in it."

That little half-smile which Jaskier was becoming quite fond of pulled at Geralt's cheek again, and he stepped forward. Perhaps wisely, they both decided to steer clear of the moth-eaten old chair, instead making themselves comfortable on the floor in front of the hearth, the flagstones warmed by the fire.

Geralt's gaze drifted over the room, and Jaskier watched him take it all in with a smile of his own.

"How does it feel to be home?"

"Surreal," said Geralt. He looked back at Jaskier after a moment. Jaskier hadn't been able to look anywhere else since they had sat down. "I owe you."

"For what?"

He shrugged, minutely. "Saving me."

"Well in that case, I should say we're even," said Jaskier, "because I think you might have saved me as well."

Geralt's hand brushed over Jaskier's wrist, fingers callused but gentle, and Jaskier felt a shiver run through him at the touch. "Can I kiss you?" said Geralt.

"I'd take great offense if you did not."

He pressed his lips to Jaskier's. The kiss was hesitant, but soft, and Jaskier closed his eyes ready to sink into it, to commit every moment to memory before the world pulled them in different directions once more. He didn't have chance to, however. Geralt was moving to pull back already.

Well, that just wouldn't do at all. Jaskier wasn't nearly done with Geralt yet.

He caught Geralt by the front of his shirt to close the distance between them again, his hands sliding to cup Geralt's cheeks as he deepened the kiss. Geralt hummed against his lips. His own hands came to rest on Jaskier's sides, impossibly warm and slowly drifting lower.

Gods, Jaskier wanted to feel them everywhere. For someone who was years out of practice, Geralt certainly had a knack for making a man weak in the knees.

With Geralt's hands still roaming delightfully, Jaskier shifted forward into his lap, pressing his hips against Geralt's to try and bring some relief to the growing ache there. A moan rose up from his lungs, and Jaskier didn't bother to try and suppress it. He could feel Geralt's own desire pressing firm against his.

In the end, Geralt was the one to break their kiss. He gazed up at Jaskier with dark eyes while Jaskier panted above him. "It's been a long time," he warned.

"Do you want to slow down?"

A growl rumbled deep in his chest, low enough to leave Jaskier feeling more than a little like prey about to be devoured. Jaskier wondered if that was some part of the wolf yet to be fully shaken, or if Geralt was always like this. One thing was for sure: Jaskier was looking forward to finding out.

"No," said Geralt, and in one swift, dizzying movement he was up.

Jaskier scrabbled at his shoulders to hang on, his legs wrapping tight around Geralt's hips as Geralt's hands moved to Jaskier's arse to hold him up. Geralt cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Bed?" said Jaskier. "Not that I'm opposed to being slammed up against a wall and ravished, but it has been rather a long day."

Geralt silenced him with another hungry kiss as he carried Jaskier towards the bed. They fumbled to rid one another of their clothes, hands and mouths eager to explore, and when Geralt had finally finished teasing Jaskier with his fingers and lined himself up to push inside, there wasn't much Jaskier could do but cling on for dear life.

Afterwards, Jaskier lay wrapped in the warm embrace of Geralt's arms, luxuriating in the deep, satisfying ache that radiated out from his core. "Now that was something," he said. He still couldn't feel his toes.

With his nose tucked behind Jaskier's ear, Geralt rumbled happily at his side. His hand stroked a lazy trail up and down Jaskier's chest, heedless of the sticky mess they had both made of him, and while they lay there in comfortable silence Jaskier gazed up at the ceiling, watching the shadows elongate as early morning sunlight gradually crept through the window.

They really should get some sleep.

With considerable difficulty, Jaskier tore himself from Geralt's side and climbed out of bed. He hissed as he shuffled across the room.

"Sore?" said Geralt. There was a playful grin on his face when Jaskier looked back at him.

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself."

He snatched up Geralt's discarded shirt — or rather, his own discarded shirt, though Jaskier was quite happy for Geralt to hold on to it at this point — to clean himself up, and moved to toss it over to Geralt to do the same. Before he could, however, Jaskier's eyes landed on the window and the view beyond it.

"Oh," he breathed, taking a step closer without being fully aware of it. "Would you look at that."

Outside, what looked like the whole world stretched out before him, the pale pink sunrise casting everything in gossamer light. The valleys and crags of the Blue Mountains were blanketed in glittering white on the higher ground near the keep; the forests a thick, dark green sprawling as far as the eye could see beyond it.

Behind him he could hear Geralt shifting on the bed to face the window. "Never gets old," he said, his voice fond.

"I can believe that."

Jaskier could stare out at that view for a lifetime, could compose a thousand poems about its beauty and still have more to say, more to discover. He pressed his fingertips to the cold glass, hopelessly transfixed.

"The pass will be blocked for the winter before long," said Geralt, and when Jaskier forced his eyes from the window he found Geralt's own already fixed on him. "If there's somewhere else you want to go, we'll have to prepare to leave soon."

"We?"

Geralt nodded.

"But you'll not be able to come back if you leave with me now."

He shrugged. "I'd rather see you home safely," he said, though his gaze was on the view, as if he was as loathe to be parted from it as Jaskier was. After a long moment, he looked back up at Jaskier. There was something almost hesitant in his eyes before he spoke again. "Do you want to go back to Lettenhove?"

Jaskier looked to the view again. It was impossible to make out landmarks far in the distance, yet still he wondered if he was looking back at Lettenhove; at his family high up in their castle, mourning for Jaskier, perhaps, or affecting an appropriate display of grief at least. He gazed out at everything that laid between him and that place, that life, at all the other paths he could take instead, and finally he stepped away from the window.

Jaskier climbed back onto the bed, pressing a soft kiss to Geralt's lips before settling in at his side once again.

"I think I'd rather stay here with you."

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after...
> 
> That's it for my witcher bingo series! Massive thanks to everyone who's read, commented, kudosed, and bookmarked. I love each and every one of you.


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